


The Mission Briefing 2020: A Long Night in Sector 3

by PapaBearAwards



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22229218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PapaBearAwards/pseuds/PapaBearAwards
Summary: The long winter has worn the nerves of our heroes. A nice long reading break is just what they need and for once London has them covered. The PBA shipment is here, so long as they can make it to sector 3 and back...
Kudos: 5





	1. Happy New Year

~ AIRFIELD OUTSIDE OF LONDON ~

Sergeant Mavis Newkirk carried her steaming mug of tea to the post at the radio. Her lunch - if one could call eating at one AM lunch - was spread out before her. Mam had packed a cheese and pickle sandwich with two special honey biscuits wrapped in a clean handkerchief. A smile eased over her features as she bit into the first biscuit. She felt a slight pinch of guilt, as these had been meant for Peter's Christmas box, but Mam had insisted she take some.

Peter.

She often wondered what he did on these long nights. As a child and adolescent, he'd always struggled with insomnia. It wasn't until years later and well after the start of the war that she found out what he was up to during those midnight hours.

Still, she wondered if he was lying awake in whatever rat-infested barracks. Perhaps he was thinking of home, Rita, or maybe even her and Mam. She could almost see him stretched out, smoking his fags and chatting. Yes, he was definitely chatting. She wondered about his mates about whom he so often wrote home. LeBeau; the ill-tempered chef, who didn't know how to make proper mushy peas. Carter; the only time his lips weren't moving was when he slept. Kinch; the just - a peacemaker, who tells it like it is. Hogan; the gov - she'd never heard Peter speak so glowingly of an officer. She wondered what they were like… reading between the lines, she could tell he thought highly of all of them.

Voices in the outer room drew her out of her pondering and to the door, which she pulled open. Four men - two in American uniforms and two in British - were in the process of wheeling in two dollies, each holding one very large crate.

"What's that?"

She hadn't realized she'd spoken her thought aloud until the four men snapped their heads up. Captain Roberts - her superior - had followed the men in. He frowned, his blue eyes clouding, but said brusquely, "Top secret delivery for Papa Bear. Send an alert for a special drop. Immediate pick up in sector 3. Special code: PBA."

"PBA?" Mavis repeated.

"Toot sweet."

Mavis dipped her head in a jerky nod and resumed her seat. This was important. Very important.

~ STALAG 13, GERMANY ~

Kinch checked his watch. Four minutes left on the active hour. During the night London would have active hours - three periods, each an hour long that Kinch or Baker would be at the radio to receive updates.

He yawned and scratched the nape of his neck before picking up the little pocket calendar. He crossed out the last day of December and tore out the page.

January. The start of a whole new year. How could it be that time was still marching on?

He felt tired. Cold. Drained... And he wasn't the only one, either. Newkirk and LeBeau were more snappish with each other - and anyone who even happened to make the mistake of looking their way. Carter had quit trying to cheer everyone up… and the colonel, well, he hardly left the office when it wasn't necessary. Wilson would chalk it up to Winter Blues and the padre would claim a waning of their faith.

In Kinch's mind the solution was simple. What they needed was a break from this entire war. A vacation from the missions, poor food, and this relentlessly cold, never-ending winter! What they needed…

"Mother Goose calling Papa Bear. Come in, Papa Bear."

Kinch looked at his watch again. 00:58… boy, London could cut it close. "Read you loud and clear, Mother Goose. This is Papa Bear. Go ahead."

"Mother Goose is sending you a New Year's gift. Sector 3. 2300 hours. PBA. Repeat… Sector 3. 2300 hours. PBA. Acknowledge?"

Kinch's posture straightened. "Roger, Mother Goose. 2300 hours. Sector 3. Papa Bear out."

He yanked the cord from the radio with more liveliness than he'd had a moment ago. He'd almost forgotten that it was that time again. The Papa Bear Awards would be just what the doctor ordered. By the time they finished reading all the heroic tales of themselves the team would be out of their funk.

He pulled the lever and crawled up the ladder. The room was dim; the only light coming from the glowing embers from the slots in the stove and the little bud of light from Newkirk's cigarette. He pressed the trigger, his bunk lowered, and he sat down. While a break from routine, the PBAs hardly qualified as an emergency worthy of waking the colonel. He sighed as he pulled at the laces on his boots and slipped them off. He lay back, remembering the stories from last year and a smile formed across his face.

I wonder just what those authors have in store for us this year?

~ HH ~

"I haven't seen you're bloody coffee pot! And if you nag me about it one more time…"

Kinch's eyes opened suddenly at the shout. He felt like he'd just closed his eyes. He stretched out briefly, trying to wake up. He got some help in that department when a loud, metal-on-metal crash brought him upright - bumping his head on the bottom of Addison's bunk.

"I have no time for your games," LeBeau snapped, pouring ladles of fresh water into his regular pot, which had been placed - forcibly - on the stove top. "Get my coffee pot back to me before I need it for lunch or else..."

"Will you two shut up?" Carter complained. He sat atop his bunk trying to get a comb through the cowlick at the back of his head. He hated when his hair was long, but it helped in the winter time with retaining warmth.

Newkirk smacked his bunk post and jabbed a finger in his direction. "You stay out of it, Andrew."

Kinch rubbed the sore spot on his forehead as the rest of the barracks put in their two cents. He stood and made his way to the growing ruckus, just as Addison accidentally bumped into Olsen, who was shoved into Newkirk.

Newkirk lost his balance and fell, causing LeBeau to turn on Olsen. A few angry, French insults mixed with defensive, German excuses as both men shouted to be heard over the other. Carter threw his sawdust pillow at the back of Olsen's head, while Addison helped Newkirk to his feet with a muffled apology.

Kinch didn't even try to talk over them. He put his fingers to his lips and blew a loud, clear whistle. "Settle down!" he glowered at each of them. Such an unusual act from him, they grew serious and quiet. "You're all supposed to be grown men for pete's sake."

The door to Hogan's office opened and the colonel stepped into the common room, turning down the collar of his jacket as he walked. He looked to the stove, where his morning joe would normally be waiting, and frowned. "Coffee?"

LeBeau cleared his throat and made his way to the stove. "It will be ready after roll call, mon colonel," he said, getting the canister of grounds and finishing his daily task.

Hogan looked at them all gathered around Carter and Newkirk's bunk, but directed his comments to Kinch. "Anything I need to know?"

"Yes, sir," Kinch stepped closer to his commander. "London radioed last night. They're dropping the PBAs tonight in sector 3."

The statement had the effect he presumed it to have as the men cheered. All except the new lad, Albert Finney. He sat on his bunk relacing his boots and staying out of the way.

"What's a PBA?" he asked timidly. Straightening up, he shoved a shock of his thick blond hair out of his eyes.

"The PBA is where I get to go into Hammelburg, find some lovely bird with legs up to here and take her home and…" Newkirk's eyes went heavenward as his imagination went wild.

LeBeau jabbed him in the side. "Forget Hammelburg!" He exclaimed. "Paris has it all! The wine; the food; the girls! Si merveilleux!"

"What about the heroics?" Carter said, jumping down from the bunk. His eyes danced as they always did when discussing demolitions. "We can blow bridge after bridge. Save everyone and, and…"

"Sure," Broughton growled from the little nook beside the colonel's office. "You guys get the booze, the girls, and the heroics while we stay here and freeze to death."

Kinch shrugged. "We also get beaten, shot at, operated on, and so many miscellaneous maladies," he said. A shudder ran through him as he remembered some particularly brutal tales.

Finney looked more confused than before. His eyes searched face after face, all of whom were nodding sympathetically. "What?" He squeaked helplessly.

Hogan opened his mouth to reply when Schultz banged roughly on the door and opened it. "RAUS!" he barked, gesturing toward the door. "ROLL CALL!"

TBC...


	2. The Unwanted Babysitter

CHAPTER TWO

The men filed out into the cold, snowy compound that had been home to some for more than two years.

Finney dropped into place just to the left of Newkirk, which had become his usual spot since being placed in barracks two three months ago. He watched the men around him try their hardest to throw Schultz off his count.

"What come after sechs?" Carter called out loudly.

"I think is dreizehn." Came a reply, also from the back row.

Newkirk chuckled. "Naw, mate, it's eins." He said.

"Imbecile," LeBeau growled, nudging his side. "Elf!"

"Elf," Schultz repeated. He stopped short and shook his head in exasperation. "Jolly jokers," he muttered, starting back at the beginning.

They did this a grand total of three times before Schultz whined to the colonel and he told them to settle down.

"One of these days, you'll push me too far," he warned, starting his fourth count as Klink stepped out on the porch. He'd reached nine when the usual bellow for report rang out. Flustered, Schultz gave Hogan a desperate look before calling, "All present and accounted for, Herr Kommandant."

Kommandant Klink gave a curt nod, making his way down the steps and across the compound. The man - expecting the usual speech - began to jeer. Stopping short in front of Hogan, Klink spoke. "The work detail in the Adolf Hitler Bridge has been postponed. You won't begin until this Friday, understood?"

Hogan's eyebrows slid upward in surprise. "Now wait a minute," he said, recovering quickly and starting his fishing expedition. "We had an agreement. The man have been looking forward to this."

He looked over his shoulder and the whole of the barracks, except Finney, nodded and murmured their agreement.

"Then they will have something to look forward to on Friday," Klink said dryly. "That is all. Dismissed!"

Hogan narrowed his eyes as he watched Klink turn on his heel and scurry back to the warmth of his office.

"What do you think that was about?" Kinch asked, keeping his voice low.

Hogan shook his head. "Don't know, but I think we should find out. You guys check with your contacts. I'll check with mine."

"What about the PBAs?" Finney piped up.

He was quickly shushed. "We'll just have to let them wait a little while," Hogan said softly before turning up his collar and heading for the kommandantur.

H~H

The morning passed slowly as did most of the afternoon. LeBeau spent most of it fixing pastries and plying them on an unsuspecting Schultz, who knew very little… only that he was ordered by Klink to double the guards on the fence line.

Carter and Newkirk double-teamed the boys at the motor-pool, learning that, whatever was going on, it was all the Abwehr's show.

Kinch cornered Langenschiedt on his way to the guards' barracks. Klink had revoked all passes and all camp personnel were to remain on high alert.

Hogan - with aid from some silk stockings - learned that an Abwehr major had called Colonel Klink with a simple statement: Papa Bear will be captured in the woods tonight at 11.

"A traitor in camp?" LeBeau asked quietly. They'd gathered in Hogan's quarters, well away from prying eyes and ears.

Kinch shook his head. "I don't think so. You know we've thoroughly vetted every member of the camp," he said. "Besides, I didn't tell anyone about London's message until five minutes before roll call."

"There's a leak on London's end then," Newkirk concluded darkly.

Hogan listened without really hearing. His thoughts were elsewhere attempting to figure a way around the mess.

"We can't go traipsing out to get the stories," Carter said obviously. "That's a sure way of getting ourselves shot."

"Kinch," Hogan said, straightening up and heading for the door of his office. "Call London on the special frequency; let them know that we're postponing the PBAs until we get this sorted."

This wasn't a very popular command, but it was generally accepted that it was better to read about getting shot then to experience the real thing. They followed him out with Kinch breaking off, heading for the bunk beds.

Broughton was at the door, keeping lookout, when he jerked back and shut the door quickly. "Schultz!" he exclaimed, rushing toward the center of the room.

A tired, grouchy sergeant of the guard pushed his way in with a sigh. Over his shoulder he carried a bed roll and a pillow.

"What's going on?" Hogan asked.

Schultz dropped his pack to the floor with a minor thud and straightened his back. "The Kommandant has ordered barracks guards to maintain watch from inside the barracks." Schultz rolled his eyes. "I will be making a pallet on the floor in front of the door. Oh, boy will my back hurt."

The last part was muttered under his breath as he glanced around the wood floor for a likely spot. Kinch shared a worried look with Newkirk while Hogan smiled.

"You know very well that Klink only wants you to keep an eye on me."

Schultz looked up at him and nodded. "Ja, he said to me, 'Schultz, that Hogan will do anything to blacken my name'. You are very naughty, Colonel Hogan."

Hogan's eyes twinkled. "You should hear what we have planned for tonight."

The blood drained from Schultz's face and he shook his head. "No, no, please, Colonel Hogan… no monkey business. It would be worth my life."

"I tell you what," he leaned in close to the sergeant of the guard, saying, "you can take the lower bunk in my office. You'll be watching me and it would be more comfortable than the floor."

Schultz considered this momentarily and his face brightened. "Ja, two birds, one rock," he said, bending over to pick up his pack. He crossed the room and dropped it just inside the door. Kinch stood by the bunk - hand on the trigger - ready to make a quick exit down to the tunnel, but Schultz returned too quickly.

"I will deal with that later. . ." he said, rubbing his hands together and lifting the lid to the pot on the stove. He inhaled deeply, a smile crossing his face. "It smells wunderbar. . ."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: We're down to less than a * WEEK * until the nomination deadline is up on the 21st . For a list of rules, eligible stories, and a nomination form visit www dot papabearawards2020 dot com. If you have any questions or need any help, leave us a comment and we'll get back to you.


	3. Got Them

Chapter Three

Kinch looked at his watch irritably. Schultz had been given his third helping of stew and was still sopping the plate. Making his way to where Hogan leaned against the door jam of his office, Kinch spoke quietly, so their babysitter wouldn't overhear. 

"It's almost nine," he said. "They'll have taken off by now."

Newkirk took a drag, blowing it out through his nose as he kept his gaze on LeBeau and Carter, who ran interference. "No guarantee that London could reach them before they get out of range," he said, searching for a fresh cigarette and lighting it with the ember of the old one. 

Hogan nodded his agreement. "We'll just have to collect those stories."

"And by 'we',you actually mean me?" Newkirk asked with a hint of derision in his voice.

Hogan gently clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks for volunteering, Newkirk. Take Carter and another man with you."

"LeBeau?"

Hogan shook his head. "I might need his gift to help with Schultz. Go out through the emergency tunnel - after we've tuck Schultz into bed - and get them or hide them in that abandoned farmhouse in the sector."

"I'll need a truck," he said. "Last year those authors had over two hundred eligible stories, not likely to slow down this year."

"Motor pool?" Kinch suggested. "Can have a costly chat with Sergeant Klein."

Hogan shook his head again. "I don't want any connection with the Stalag if you have to ditch it. Make up some orders and requisition it in town. If this is Abwerh's show, then I want you all dressed as S.S."

"Right, we'd best get started then."

Hogan placed his hand on the Brit’s shoulder. “If you can’t get them back or hide them at the farmhouse, destroy them all.”

Newkirk’s lips pressed into a tight line, but he agreed. Stubbing out his fag carefully so it could be reused, he made the rounds of the bunks. A brief stop to let them in on their part of the ploy before moving on. Almost instantly there were a series of yawns. Several of the PoWs made a show of taking off their shirts and boots, preparing for bed. Another voiced a complaint on how tired the early roll calls and nightly bed checks left him exhausted.

Newkirk rounded the corner and passed the door, coming into view of the sergeant of the guard. "Oi," he said, scratching the back of his head. "He’s right. I'm knackered."

Schultz shoved the last bit of gravy-coated brown bread into his mouth and licked his fingers. "It isn't even eight," he said. These men so often whined when faced with the normal lights-out, so to say this was unusual was an understatement. 

“It’s fifteen minutes to nine.” Carter corrected. Easily rolling with the flow, he slipped a floppy grin onto his face. "Besides you know what they say, 'early to bed; early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise'. Right?"

Schultz pushed the little niggling warning to the back of his mind, choosing to except this at face-value. He stood with as much effort as one could muster while being so full that one begins to feel ill. “Ja, we also have a saying,” he said, “Morgenstund hat gold im mund.”

He seemed oblivious to the frowns and murmurs of confusion, instead he checked that the door was barred on the outside and then ambled to the colonel’s office. “Gute Nacht,” he said over his shoulder. Hogan gave his men a ‘get-going’ nod before joining the guard and shutting the door.

Newkirk tapped Carter’s leg and motioned for Olsen to join them. The three followed Kinch down the ladder to the radio room. While Kinch attempted to contact London via the secure frequency, Newkirk gave Carter and Olsen their mission: collect the stories or at the very least make sure the Nazis never read them. 

“What about all the authors?” Carter questioned, slipping the uniform shirt over his head and tucking it into the grey pants. “They’re depending on us to read the stories and pick the best of the year.”

“Just get some of your firecrackers together,” Newkirk said. He was already into his uniform and double checking-the quality of the forged papers. They were ones he kept in stock for a time such as this, but better to measure twice you know. 

“It won’t come to that,” Olsen said confidently. “We know exactly where Sector 3 is, the krauts don’t. There’s an awful lot of woods out there to cover and their man-power is likely spread thin to cover the most area.”

Carter beamed. That’s right. They had an edge, not a big one, but an edge nonetheless. 

Kinch pulled the plug from the radio. London was very concerned, insisting that Papa Bear investigate at his end; however, there was no turning back the planes - the PBA stories were well on their way.

The three men, now sufficiently disguised, climbed out of the emergency tunnel, and started the three-mile walk to Hammelburg. The almost-full moon cast long shadows through the leaf-bare branches, creating spidery lines across the blanket of ice-covered snow. The crunching of the snow beneath their feet was the only sound heard. One could hardly believe there was a platoon - or more - of men out there searching for the infamous spy. 

They stuck to the main road, agreeing that should anyone stop them, the story would be car trouble. Fortunately, they reached the outskirts of town before they had to worry about it. A long black staff car pulled to a stop, the back window rolled down, and a major leaned forward to peek out. 

“Guten Abend,” he said, “what has happened?”

Carter slipped into his German persona as easily as pulling on a pair of slippers. “Guten Abend. My associates and I were on our way to the HofBrau, when we were run off the road.”

The major looked alarmed. “What? By whom?”

“They did not stop,” Carter said, shaking his head angrily. The moonlight glinting off the wire rim of his round glasses. “They must be some of the traitors our commanding officer, Major Hochstetter, is after. Any loyal German would stop.”

Newkirk and Olsen nodded in agreement behind him. 

“We should report this to Major Hochstetter immediately,” Carter continued. “They were heading south west. If we hurry, we can catch them and crush the underground once and for all.”

“Of course, lieutenant. We shall let you get back to your quest.” He paused, as if realizing how that sounded and smiled apologetically. “We would offer a lift, but we have a time sensitive matter to deal with. Auf Wiedersehn.”

The window was cranked up and the staff car put into gear. Carter watched speed down the road with a smirk. “That oughta keep him busy for a little while,” he said.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. “If you’re done, how about we steal us a lorry and get to the rendezvous?”

Keeping alert, they walked as casually as possible through the streets. Many of the shops were closed and the few restaurants that hadn’t closed due to rationing, were dimly illuminated from behind the shades and curtains. Newkirk seemed to be seeking something specific. He would slow in the opening of each alley, before resuming the normal pace.

After a few minutes doing this, he came to a complete stop then turned down the alley. Ahead of him was the back end of a small grocery shop, where a large double door was propped open with wooden crates. Sitting beside it was a white-paneled, delivery truck with green accents. 

Newkirk opened the back hatch further, inspecting the size and noting the dolly. “Hallo?” he called, knocking on the door jamb.

A slight-framed man dressed in his shirtsleeves with dark blonde hair and a mustache came around the corner into the doorway. His initial expression was annoyance; however, when he caught sight of Newkirk’s uniform and his two stern looking companions, he swallowed nervously.

“Guten abend,” he managed to croak. He wiped his hands on the apron wrapped tightly around his middle. “How may I help you?”

Newkirk made a show of removing his leather gloves. “We have need of your van.”

“My van?” he repeated, Adam’s apple bobbing as his tempo picked up. “I couldn’t possibly be without my van. I have deliveries to make tonight. I. . .”

With a furtive glance at Carter, Newkirk quickly shushed him and leaned in to whisper. “I wouldn’t recommend denying Lieutenant Cartermann. He’s seeking members of the underground. Your lack of enthusiastic support of the Third Reich, might be misconstrued.”

He blanched. “I am - of course - nothing but loyal, herr sergeant. It would be my pleasure to assist the Gestapo in any way."

He shoved his scrawny arm into his pocket and extracted a tarnished key. He held it out and Newkirk noticed a slight tremor in his hand.

"Danke, Herr…"

"Seidel, Hermann Seidel."

Newkirk dipped his head out of a polite sense of respect. "Your truck will be returned as soon as possible," he said, turning toward the back hatch and closing it.

He motioned for Carter and Olsen to join him before sliding behind the wheel, puting the key in, and giving it a twist. He pushed the ignition button and the engine came to life. 

"I thought we were going to requisition a truck from Gestapo HQ." Carter didn't mind when the others ad-libbed, but he wished they would let him in on it first.

"Take a risk that the guard could be attentive enough to recognize us," Olsen paused for effect, a huge grin on his face. "Or gamble that a scared witless civilian won't remember anything specific about the Gestapo agents who commandeered his truck. I know where I'd put my money."

Newkirk put the truck in gear and rolled down the alley, turning onto the main street. He’d checked the time when they entered town and they had a little over an hour to reach Sector 3.

H~H

They arrived on time and parked, waiting for the signal: one white flare, followed by a red flare, then another white. It hardly needed spoken that the signal, which would alert them, would alert the krauts, and thus an anxiousness settled over them as the seconds became minutes. 

Finally, at three minutes to eleven, the drone of an airplane could be heard in the distance, then the night sky illuminated with the signal flares. They got ready, starting the truck as two large parachutes dropped out, one after the other.

"Let's move." 

Carter and Olsen rash kept their eye on one package,while Newkirk drove. The first - Carter's - was picked up immediately from where it landed near the road, but the second one required more effort. It landed in a more wooded section. Fortunately their luck held and they were able to gather it first, heading to the farmhouse to stash the stories.

They took backroads that were little more than dirt paths to avoid patrols. They were relieved when the farmhouse was in sight. While Newkirk and Carter arranged the stories in their hiding places, Olsen went to hide the truck. They still needed it to get the stories to Stalag 13, but if it were found, there would be no way to. Trace it back to them specifically.

"There are krauts all over the place," Olsen exclaimed softly. He slipped in, closing the door and twisting the lock. "There's no way we'll get back to camp."

"We can stay here a little bit longer." Newkirk double checked with his watch before adding, "keep any eye out, Olsen. Once they’re done sweeping over the area, we’ll scarper." 

Olsen took up an uncomfortable slouch by the sole window, peering between the boards that were nailed into the sill.

Carter sat down in the rocking chair, hands beneath his thighs in an effort to warm them. The soft leather was very nice looking, but they did nothing to keep your fingers warm. 

Newkirk stretched out onto the dusty settee. He rubbed his eyes. He was gasping for a fag, but he'd left the pack when he changed uniforms.

"You know," Carter said after a moment of sitting there. "We could and up being here for a while."

Newkirk silently agreed. 

"What's your point?" Olsen asked, risking a look at him and noticing his gaze locked onto the rug. 

Carter shrugged. "Just that we could be doing something useful with our time. . ."

"Right," Newkirk said. He stood, moved the rug, climbed down to the crates. He pried the first one open and was pleased to see the stack of Snapshots on top. 

"We'll start with these," he handed them off to Carter. "You read aloud and when your voice gets scratchy, I'll take over."

Carter switched on his flashlight, holding it close to the papers to shield the beams from visibility. He cleared his throat and read the title. "A Feint and a Faint, by GrrraceUnderfire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Today is the last day of nominations!
> 
> For access to a ballot or the master list of stories, go to papabearawards2020 dot com. If you need any help at all, leave a comment on this story and we'll get back to you.
> 
> Send your ballot in by 23:59:59 in Hawaii. If you aren't able to fill in the ballot completely, that's okay. Fill in as much or as little as you want and fire it off to us at papabearawards at yahoo dot com. Or send it to us via PM.


	4. And the Nominations Are. . .

Chapter Four

The sharp sounds of a tiny, metal hammer clanking furiously against the bells of the alarm clock jarred Klink out of slumber. He reached out his hand and held the little hammer, preventing it from making that awful noise. He yawned, pushing the black sleep mask from his eyes while switching off the alarm. 

Another beautiful morning, he thought. A smile crossed his face as he threw the covers off. If he’d slept through the night that meant that his prisoners were safe and sound in their bunks. Maybe his prayers and desperate pleas had been answered: Papa Bear was captured and he was not Colonel Hogan.

Throwing the covers off, he grabbed his gold robe and shrugged it onto his shoulders. He stepped into the bathroom, humming a tune while searching for his toothbrush. A few moments later he was baring his teeth at his reflection, inspecting the grayish-white enamel. Satisfied, he moved on. A shave and the careful brushing of his fringe was completed before his uniform, which had been pressed and neatly hung in the bathroom, was pulled on. 

One last look in the mirror to ensure there was nothing the prisoners - most importantly, Hogan - to mock and he practically skipped out the door. He placed his cap on at a jaunty angle before calling out, “Schultz, report!”

His portly sergeant of the guard suppressed a yawn. “All prisoners present, Herr Kommandant.”

“And how was the night?” Klink asked, a smug grin on his face.

“All was still,” Schultz said before casting a quick look over his shoulder at Hogan and adding, “Except for Colonel Hogan snores.”

Hogan’s eyes widened - having spent the night tossing and turning to the rumble of the Schultz locomotive - he couldn’t believe Schultz had the gall to complain about the measly hour he’d managed to claim after Newkirk, Olsen, and Carter finally made their way home.

Ignoring the urge to bite a snide comment of his own, Hogan moved on to Klink. “You’re in a chipper mood, Kommandant.”

“Chipper?” Klink smiled. He liked the sound of that word. “Yes, I suppose I am.”   
The Abwher’s operation did not connect with my camp or my prisoners, he thought, this is a wonderful day. “I’m sure your men can start their agreed-upon work detail…”

“Let me stop you right there, sir.”

Klink frowned in confusion. “Pardon?”

Hogan, despite the dark circles and bloodshot eyes, began to maneuver his angle.“You can’t expect us to work after yesterday?” 

“Hogan.” Klink’s voice was edged as if he was anticipating the complaint before it was verbalized. 

Hogan pressed forward. “Our agreement was to begin work on Thursday. You failed to uphold your part bargain, ergo any contract we had is nullified.”

There was a moment of silence as the two men faced off. Klink was the first to blink. “One extra slice of white bread?”

“Two hours of electric lights.”

“Impossible.” Klink dismissed the notion, quickly countering, “30 minutes.”

“An hour and a half.”

“45 minutes.”

“An hour and a half.”

Klink bit his lip. “One hour and that’s my final offer.”

With arms crossed over his chest, Hogan cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “You want me to agree to that?”

“It’s a better deal for you than before.” 

Finney watched this back and forth intently, while the others - having seen this scene play more than once - yawned and shifted from one foot to the other. Klink resembled an exasperated parent trying to make their wayward child obey. 

“The Bubble Head Bridge won’t repair itself.”

Klink stamped his foot. “An hour and a half, no more!”

Not bearing to see the smirk on his face, Klink turned his back. How had such a good morning, such a wonderful mood, gone to pot? Why did this always happen to him? He muttered these questions under his breath as he sought the physical comfort of his office and the emotional comfort of paperwork that he was able to control.

Schultz tossed the men, Hogan in particular, an annoyed look before announcing dismissal. 

“Why did you change the bargain?” Finney asked. 

“We’ll need light to read all those stories,” Carter grinned. “And some of them are real doozies!”

This earned him some glares from the prisoners who hadn’t had the advanced peek. Newkirk frowned as he patted the pockets of his uniform, seeking his third cigarette of the morning. He was only too pleased when LeBeau shoved his own pack into the Brit’s hands. 

“All we have to do is get them from the farmhouse,” LeBeau said.

“We can use the work detail,” Kinch suggested. “Right, sir?”

“Right,” Hogan agreed. “But first, I’m going to get some sleep. Wake me up for lunch.

H~H 

For the next week and a half, there were many trips to the Adolph Hitler bridge to sure up and repair, which gave the Heroes ample opportunity - much to Schultz chagrin - to drive home via the route past the farmhouse. 

The Snaphots here, the Long stories there. One trip allowed them to collect the Episode stories and another the Challenges. After they’d all been brought to camp, the divvy-ing up began. From the moment the prisoners got up, in between the usual camp chores, and right up until the Krauts insisted on lights-out they read chapter after chapter. Sometimes a group would read one together, taking turns reading aloud. Others chose to kidnap a story and read it in whatever nook they could hide away in.

They laughed over the comedies, shed a tear through the tragedies, and cringed at the end of year Whump fest. Each man keeping track of their favorites, jotting them down before erasing and replacing them. The most prized award, the Best of the Year, was one that sowed much discord with so many excellent tales that it was hard to narrow down. But all too soon the end of February arrived and with it the flurry of last-minute changes.

"Alright," Hogan said, standing in the middle of barracks two. The barracks chiefs had collected the ballots from any prisoner who wished to participate and now stood before the Senior POW. He was watching the second-hand tick closer to midnight. "That's all she wrote. Put the ballots in the box and close it up."

The box would be taken to Schnitzer's, the only man trusted to tally the nominations, and then Hogan would receive the stories that go into the voting round.

H~H

The vet sat bent over his notebook, carefully checking and double-checking the ballots. He sat back from his spot at the kitchen table, pulled the spectacles from his nose, and swiped a hand over his eyes and face. 

After so many hours of cross-checking ballots, he'd finally finished the last category. The results were now neatly typed up and ready for delivery. 

He checked his watch and groaned. It was three in the morning. He folded the sheets of paper carefully and his them away. The results will have to wait until tomorrow, he thought. He picked up the oil lamp and carried it up the steps to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: The Heroes may have to wait until tomorrow, but all you readers don’t! The results of the nomination round have been tallied and are now posted on the website: www dot papabearawards2020 dot com. 
> 
> The voting round begins now and will last until April 3rd. Instructions and ballots can be found on the site, though (as always) if you have any questions or need help of any kind leave a comment on this story or e-mail us at: papabearawards at yahoo dot com. Happy voting!


	5. Tough Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: That’s right we have a little more than two weeks to go. If you haven’t heard, you can head over to www dot papabearawards2020 dot com to find a ballot, review the nominated stories, or find the link to the survey. (It’s at the top of the Nominations section)

The time passed slowly. The Abwher had prowled the woods; however, since there had been no sabotage activity - nor any more suspicious activity on the radio frequency - for almost two months, they were forced to return to Berlin empty-handed. 

Life at Stalag Thirteen also remained quiet. Guards were surprised, but if it ain’t broke... They were just pleased that the roll call counts were even and if that meant looking the other way when a flicker of light was spotted after lights-out then so be it. 

Finney watched and emulated the Heroes who'd been here longer… many had been here for years. They painstakingly read every story nominated. Some went so far as to read their favorite multiple times, just to make sure they held up in competition. 

So he also read and re-read story after story. It even got to the point that they began to blur together. Until one night in March, he chucked one story across the table and swiped his hands over his face in frustration. 

“I can’t do it,” he moaned.

Kinch, who was reading a lovely Medium Comedy involving Carter, Newkirk, bombs, and one plump barmaid, looked up. The lad was slowly shaking his head and then raked his fingers through his hair. 

“What’s wrong?”

Finney gestured to the stack of stories. “There’s no way to pick one out of all of these.”

“You can pick up to three for the Voting Round,” Carter said helpfully. He was on his bunk, laying on his stomach reading about a substitute kommandant who was very different from their (un)lovable Kommandant. 

“Three, huh?” Finney studied his list and sighed. “What if I pick the wrong ones?”

Newkirk frowned. “Can’t pick a wrong one,” he said. “It's only your opinion that counts.”

“Just vote for the ones you think were the best or that tickled your fancy in some way.” Kinch advised, before turning back to his tale.

Reassured, Finney reached for the discarded story and dug back in. After all, he only had until April 3rd…


	6. Bronze, Silver, GOLD!

THREE MILES SOUTHEAST OF STALAG THIRTEEN

Four men stole through the shadows, jogging from the cover of one tree to the next bush. They kept low to the ground and were silent as they approached the fence. Previous reconnaissance had told them that at this time of night, the young dutiful guard had gone off duty - replaced by the one who liked to catch a few winks before the lieutenant came to inspect the fence line.

The group came to a stop and crouched down.

"Carter," Hogan whispered. "Clip the wire."

Carter crawled up to the heavy gauged wire, pulled out his cutters, and started to clip the bottom wire.

"LeBeau…"

"North end of the compound," LeBeau whispered before Hogan could get the question out. "Under the barrels of gunpowder."

"Newkirk."

"West side, by all those lovely petrol drums."

Hogan nodded approvingly then turned to Carter, who had finished clipping one side, four squares up, then started down the other side. "Carter?"

"Just a sec," he muttered, finishing his task and pulling the cut section up to allow them through. He settled back and slipped the wire cutters into his canvas bag. "I'll be in the warehouse," he said seriously. "I'll plant my packs and be out before one - that'll give us thirty minutes to get home and tucked in before she goes up."

"Right," Hogan glanced at his watch, though it was hard to see in the scant moonlight. He pulled his pistol from his waistband. "Get going. I'll cover you."

They took turns crawling through the fence, then they split up with Hogan taking a spot close to the fence behind several crates. From this spot he was able to keep under cover, but also maintain a view of each of his men.

Carter followed behind Newkirk, but his thoughts were back at camp, where Kinch and Olsen were waiting to receive the envelope containing the winning stories. Schnitzer had promised to have them with his next appointment to change out the dogs.

He didn't even notice that LeBeau had broken off until Newkirk stopped short. "You planning on 'olding me 'and while I set the charge?"

Carter stared at him dumbly, before realizing he was supposed to break off as well. "Sorry," he shrugged weakly, "You don't think they'll read the results without us, do you?"

Newkirk looked as if he wanted to wring the American's neck. "Get over to that warehouse and make sure that new mini submarine never sees the light of day."

Carter turned back and made his way back toward the warehouse. "They'd better not," he muttered under his breath. "I'll give 'em what for…"

H~H

"Halt!"

Schultz jerked forward, fumbling to get his gun in place, and scramble over to a figure who ought to be in his barracks.

"Shh," Olsen admonished, tapping the gun away from his middle. "Want to wake the whole camp?"

Schultz lowered his voice and did some chastising of his own. "What are you doing out of barracks? It is past lights-out. You could be shot!"

"Shh!"

Schultz refused to be put off. "You must go back. Or I shall have to report this."

"Report what?" Olsen asked innocently, as he carefully redirected the guard's attention away from Kinch, who was plastered against the back of the doghouse inside the kennel. "I'm just out for a little fresh air. Clears the mind you know. Before I came out here I was planning to escape."

At the e-word, Schultz nearly dropped his gun as his eyes widened.

"I had it all planned. Knock out the guard -which is unfortunately you - steal your gun and force the vet to take me out in the back of his van…"

"Please, Olsen," Schultz whined. He had to get the boy to shut up before he heard anymore; before anyone overheard and he couldn't see nothing. "You mustn't say things like that."

Kinch managed to get around to the front of the dog house. One of the old dogs was curled up inside. He looked up inquisitively with a slight wag to his tail. Kinch gestured sharply with his thumb.

"It would be worth my life; your life, too." Schultz took him by the arm in an almost affectionate way. "I do not want to see you get hurt. Please, go back inside."

"Take it easy. Don't get your panties in a bunch." Olsen pulled out of his grasp. "I said I *was* going to escape."

The dog cocked his head to the side and barked softly.

Schultz turned toward the noise and Olsen quickly seized his shoulders, preventing him from seeing. "BUT," he practically shouted. "I've decided that I couldn't leave my heart behind!"

"Shh!" Schultz frowned deeply, confusion written across his face. "What do you mean your heart? What are you talking about?"

"Helga," Olsen looked down. He didn't know how the others did this on-the-spot routine. He was used to having his back-story all lined up and ready to go. "I'm in love with her, Schultz."

Schultz's confusion melted away, replaced with a sly look of understanding. "Oh, ja…" he traced a feminine form with his hands and rolled his eyes up with a sigh. "Wunderbar."

Kinch leaned closer to the dog and whispered harshly. "Raus!"

The dog scrambled out and Kinch did a quick glance around before lifting the house and crawling below.

Olsen almost sighed in relief. "Yeah, I guess she is."

A warm smile from Schultz followed by a pat on the back and Oslen began to worry again. "You leave everything to Uncle Schultzie," he said, guiding the sergeant back to his barracks. "I'll let a little something slip to Helga - subtly, of course - and before you know it, romance will blossom with the spring."

Olsen's eyes widened and he tried to protest, but Schultz simply closed the door behind him and went back to his post, humming the chorus of 'Lili Marlen'.

H~H

The walk home was quieter than the trip out to the out-of-the-way, 'ideal' locale that the Nazi High Command always picked for their experimental doodads. Another check off London's to-do list, a tally for the Allies, and a big, whopping black-eye for Herr Hitler. A night well spent.

They crawled back into camp through the tunnels. Hogan - having spent much of the last two days up planning every aspect of the mission - was bone tired and looking forward to whatever winks he could catch before Klink, followed by an irate Hochstetter, appeared on his doorstep. The scene inside the barracks, however, reminded him of the times when he was little and wanted to dig into supper, but mom would always tell him to be patient and wait till dad got home. They were gathered around the bunk bed entrance, looking at him with eagerness that was hard to find as a POW.

"The results are on your desk, sir." Kinch quietly nudged.

Hogan swiped his hand over his face and checked his watch. "If I give you the Best Story of The Year, will you let me get some sleep?"

They all agreed. He opened the envelope and slid out the carefully printed information. "Your top stories this year are… Bronze, Dresden by Abracadebra."

"I was the main character in that," Carter whispered to Newkirk with a grin.

"Shut up, Andrew."

Hogan cleared his throat. "Silver, Not Honour More by Signy1."

There were murmurs of approval and then Hogan gained complete silence with his next sentence. "There was a tie for Gold…" He couldn't help drawing it out, they sat there on the edge of their seats with breath held.

"Executive Order 9981 by Goldleaf83 and Mon Pays et Paris by Belphegor."

There were quiet cheers and congratulations on a job well-done. "Oi," Finney said, his blue eyes twinkling. "That's a relief. Very good stories. I can't wait till next year."

The guys laughed and Hogan ushered them to bed. They could read the rest of the results tomorrow… after Hochstetter left, of course.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Because of the AO3 guidelines, we decided not to release the full list in the story this year. Instead, you can find the list on our website: www dot papabearawards2020 dot com. Many congratulations to all the winners and a great big thank you to everyone who participated by reading and sending in your ballots; you guys rock!

**Author's Note:**

> AN: If you've reached the end of this chapter and you are as confused as Finney, then do I have news for you! The 2020 Papa Bear Awards have kicked off! The Papa Bear Awards are a friendly competition were readers and writers can nominate and vote for their favorite stories from 2019.
> 
> To find rules, a list of eligible stories and a nomination form, you can visit the PBA's official website: www dot papabearawards2020 dot com. (remove the spaces and replace the words with their symbols). 
> 
> Or you can visit the XIIIc Forum page on (www dot fanfiction dot net) titled, "2020 Papa Bear Awards!"


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